Still Working
by Autumn Bells
Summary: After a case gone wrong, a nasty fall has left Sherlock and John seriously injured. Sherlock, however, wants to finish what he started and tries to solve the case from the ICU. Lestrade, knowing Sherlock, knows that not allowing Sherlock in on the case will probably hinder more than help his recovery, so Lestrade assists as best as he can. No slash. Under hiatus. :(
1. Maybe You're Wrong, Mycroft

**Author's Note: Hello, everyone! This plot was created by the ever-so-sweet Catie501! I just wrote it. If you like her idea, PM her and let her know! As always, please enjoy and review and I hope to do the character's justice.**

**Chapter 1**

**Maybe You're Wrong, Mycroft**

Surprisingly, there were only a few things running through Sherlock's mind as he and John trudged their way through the thigh-deep snow in a blinding blizzard: 1.) It was really, really cold, 2.) John was slow for a soldier, though perhaps it was due to his short height in snow up to his waist, and 3.) if it wasn't the sixty-foot fall into the rocky forest below that did them in, it would be the bullets constantly being shot at them.

Sherlock glanced back at John, who was struggling and without a winter coat, would probably faint due to hypothermia. Next, Sherlock looked further back, only able to make out two silhouettes through the opaque screen of falling snow and hail. Running through snow where, on either side of the closed highway, was a drop that would surely be their doom, Sherlock wasn't sure what else to do. There was either move forward or try to persuade their predators to reason with them using words. Sherlock reckoned the first option was better.

"Sherlock!"

The consulting detective didn't look back at John, but simply waited for the continuation of his obvious complaint. John's booming voice broke the sound of Sherlock's blood rushing through his ears and the sound of the relentless wind.

"We can't keep going!"

Sherlock scoffed as loud as he could over the gusts. "I beg to differ, John! I'm certain I can keep going! You? I'm not sure at this point!" Sherlock was half-joking and half-serious.

"What?" John yelled and cupped his hand over his ear to hear clearer.

"Nothing!" Sherlock answered as if his statement didn't matter in the least. A bullet pierced through a loose flap in Sherlock coat, leaving an inch-long hole. Normally, he would've turned around and given the two men chasing them an earful for ruining his favorite coat, but he figured it would be a poor decision. John managed to catch up to Sherlock, breathless and lips turning blue.

Sherlock recounted the past events that led up to this moment. Truthfully, there wasn't much to recount. DI Lestrade phoned him to inform him of a recent drug heist from pharmacies everywhere in London. Sherlock simply followed the clues from the crime scenes to pick up on where the next robbery would occur, which turned out to be at the top of a enormous , snowy mountain in a town isolated from the rest of the world. Well, thanks to John's mobile going off during their stake-out of the robbery in-progress, they had been found out and immediately fled. Unfortunately, the robbers were much faster than Sherlock gave them credit for.

"Who was it?" Sherlock yelled over the wind and brushed his dark hair out of his eyes. He caught a glimpse of his bare hand and realized how similar it looked to the snow beneath them.

"What?"

"Who was it?"

"Who was what?" John was beginning to have trouble speaking, as did Sherlock.

"Who was it whom sent you a text?"

A tense silence followed and Sherlock wondered if it was inappropriate to ask.

"Not a good time to ask!" John replied, sounding frustrated and angry. A tone of humiliation was detected and Sherlock smirked.

"Are you still seeing that 'Hidget' woman?" Sherlock asked.

"It's Bridget! And yes!"

"Oh, please, John! Did you see her fingernails? Long and unkempt! I can't imagine what her home might look like!"

"Sherlock, maybe she just-!"

Sherlock froze mid-step. John's voice stopped abruptly and fear that a bullet had struck him coursed through the detective's mind. He spun around, nearly falling in the snow, and found nothing but the two men still trying to chase them from a distance. John was nowhere in sight.

"John?" Sherlock muttered, however, even if John were there, his voice was barely audible. Frantic and panicking, Sherlock dug through the snow, afraid maybe John's short stature had him slip through the snow. Sherlock's hands were beginning to turn a deathly purple as he continued to scrape and attack the snow that was turning hard into ice. "John?"

As Sherlock dug through the ice, getting his fingers frostbitten, his foot suddenly loss ground and he nearly tumbled backwards over the cliff but was able to regain his balance. Wondering how it might've ended for him, Sherlock glanced over the edge, peering down into the forest of dead trees and bushes and rocks. To his horror, he found something that resembled a corpse; twisted and mangled, bloody beyond comprehension. However, a familiar jacket was able to confirm that the body below was indeed John.

Sherlock wasn't sure if the tears brimming in his eyes were due to the crisp, cold air or due to the sadness and fear that overwhelmed him. It was a traumatizing experience; witnessing the only person in the world you cared about die. No. Sherlock wasn't certain. Maybe John was alive! Maybe the fall hadn't killed him! It was only sixty feet onto the fluffy snow! The snow beneath John was beginning to dye a dark, red color, but that didn't mean death. Sherlock subconsciously reached out with one arm towards John, hoping some magical force would bring him to his best friend.

Well, it was a force, but it sure as hell wasn't magical. The two men that had been chasing them had caught up. The two men decided to push Sherlock off the edge instead of shoot him. Despite wanting to be reunited with his best friend, Sherlock didn't want to fall. Contrary to popular belief, falling doesn't feel like flying. It feels like gravity is trying to kill you.

The snowy ground rushed up to meet Sherlock and then there was nothing.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Everything passed by Sherlock like a lucid dream. Colors swerved and curved in front of his vision, but the color that stood out the most was the color white. The whiteness dulled only slightly to reveal unfamiliar figures with orange vests on, leaning over Sherlock. Due to his amazing ability to process information, even in the unbearable pain he was feeling, Sherlock was able to remember everything that had happened, no matter how incoherent.

"John!" Sherlock called out in the hoarsest voice he'd ever used. It was weak and Sherlock wouldn't have been surprised if he ever yelled it at all. Sherlock didn't even realize he was calling out for John. In the black hole of despair, Sherlock's thoughts went to John. It wasn't a rescue he was interested in. He wanted to know John was safe. Before his mind was able to process things any further, an unfamiliar paramedic strapped an oxygen mask to his mouth and everything went blank.

Time shifted in Sherlock's restless sleep. Would he call it sleep? Or was it simply unconsciousness? He opened his eyes once again and the blaring sound of the ambulance he was riding in was deafening, though he could hear a familiar voice talking with the tone used on a mobile.

"Donovan, make sure you comb through that area. I want you to know exactly what happened when you report back to me. I don't want a single hair missed! No loose ends!" And then the sound of the mobile snapping shut. Sherlock couldn't say he wasn't surprised by the harsh tone Lestrade was taking with the sergeant. Things were beginning to become much clearer, but that only defined the pain.

Sherlock was finding it incredibly hard to breath. Each breath seemed to move his fractured ribs and Sherlock suspected he had a collapsed lung. Sherlock knew he had a massive drop in blood pressure, which could result in a cardiac arrest. This sent Sherlock into shock. Sometimes knowing too much could make things worse, something Sherlock would never say out loud.

By the time Lestrade noticed Sherlock was fully aware, the DI bent over and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder reassuringly. "Listen, Sherlock. The guys here will take care of you. We're heading to the hospital. You and John will be just fine."

John.

Sherlock's eyes widened and his hands clenched in fearful fists. On a whim, he turned his head to the side to find another stretcher. Dr. John Watson was lying motionlessly on the slab, surrounded by two paramedics constantly working on him. John was hooked to an oxygen mask, which Sherlock was just taken off of and a heart monitor was hooked to his index finger. Due to the fall, his clothes were ripped in various places, but the biggest rip was on his chest, where the paramedics had obviously ripped open. John's body was plastered in blood and it made Sherlock's stomach sink into an abyss.

"Clear!" one paramedic yelled and two pieces of metal sent an electric current into John's body, trying to reset the way his heart was beating. Sherlock was much too traumatized to feel much of anything. What was he thinking?

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

Damnit! He knew that! But, this was John, for God's sake! John was his advantage. Sherlock didn't want to care for John's wellbeing for moments exactly like these. Sherlock wasn't thinking of the two drug robbers. He wasn't thinking of their next location. He wasn't thinking about how to stop them. He was thinking about John. He was thinking of ways he could help John.

It took the consulting detective too long to realize he had been reaching out for his friend throughout his entire thought process. He took back his arm, embarrassed that Lestrade had witnessed his humiliating and vulnerable moment. Sherlock frowned and looked at the ceiling of the ambulance, having a hard time concentrating on one thing.

"Doctor," a nurse within the vehicle stumbled to the head paramedic's side. "We're running out of morphine. We're still ten miles from the hospital."

"Wait. Wait, wait, wait. What does that mean?" Lestrade questioned, holding out his hand in worry.

The doctor paused before answering. "It means this man," he gestured to John, "might go into shock. That'll put him in a much more critical situation."

"Give him all mine," Sherlock hoarsely called out.

A disbelieving silence followed, but the head paramedic replied in a quick voice, "Sir, you're not nearly capable of absorbing these kinds of injuries. Without it, you'll-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted, his voice cracking. "My injuries aren't as dreadful. I'll live. Just… please. Give John everything he needs until we reach the hospital."

The doctor said nothing, but complied. Sherlock glanced at Lestrade, who was accompanying a concern expression, but the consulting detective ignored it, exhaled softly, and looked back up at the ceiling as the nurse detached his morphine needle. Each bump in the road sent a shockwave of pain through Sherlock's body, but he knew he'd make it. He tried to drown out the noises John made with the ambulance sirens and Lestrade ordering Scotland Yard around on his mobile.

As time ran on, the pain was getting worse. Much, much worse. Sherlock cried out in pain with every turn, with every bump, with every movement. It was when the pain escaladed to that point that he was beginning to wonder if he would truly live through the night. The consulting detective was so delirious that he didn't realize he was already being rolled out on the gurney and taken through the hospital doors with Lestrade rushing behind the doctors. He heard noises, mostly doctors barking out orders, but everything was melted together; the colors, the noises. The only thing he was able to define was the blazing pain, but even that was beginning to numb.

A blinding light altered his vision and the last thing he saw was a doctor hooking an anesthetics mask to his mouth. And then there was nothing.


	2. I Don't Know

**Author's Note: Thanks for the wonderful reviews! Again, the plot of this story was given to me by Catie501 (as well as the summary). Enjoy and please review. I hope to do the characters justice.**

**Chapter 2**

**I Don't Know**

"Oh, dear." A feeble, soft voice invaded Sherlock's darkness. Some annoying sniffling and sobbing followed and Sherlock made a mental note to roll his eyes when he was able to open them. They felt crusty and glued shut. Although his body was failing to respond, well, this was Sherlock; his brain would start up even if he couldn't move a muscle. Quite obviously, Mrs. Hudson was across the room, holding a box of tissues and wringing her hands around her skirt. Sherlock noticed quite often that the old woman would act in such a way when something unfortunate had happened.

Sherlock wasn't sure if he flinched or not when he heard a new set of footsteps enter his room. "Are you his mother?" Feminine voice. Hesitant voice. Most likely a nurse, not a doctor.

"Me? Oh, no. No, no, no. I'm his landlady," Mrs. Hudson answered, sounding as if it was normal for a more or less random woman to visit someone who was dying. Dying? Sherlock wasn't so sure anymore. There wasn't as much pain in his chest, but the thing that worried him was the inability to feel from the tips of his fingers to his wrists on both hands.

"I'm sorry, but visiting hours will be over soon."

Another pair of footfalls entered the room.

"How's he doing?" Lestrade.

"He hasn't woken up." Mrs. Hudson.

"Actually, the doctor says he'll be just fine. The chest tube removed the air that was surrounding his right lung. We had him on that for the past five days. Yesterday, we put him in lung surgery and we were able to repair the rift. He has four broken ribs, which is the only thing to worry about. That and the surgery will have him be short of breath and easy fatigue for the next… one or two weeks. We'd like to have him stay here for another week to make sure he's healing normally."

It took Sherlock a while to process all that information.

"Well, what about John?" Lestrade asked quietly. That was when Sherlock's brain gave his body a neurological electric shock. His eyes snapped open and awareness flooded his senses. He suddenly realized the sharp pain and tightness of his chest and let out a fit of coughs, sending the nurse rushing to his side.

"It's alright! Just calm down!" the nurse yelled, but that angered Sherlock in a way that only he would truly understand. He whacked her arm from his shoulder and sat up, breathing in deeply, which only caused more pain. Then, Sherlock stopped. He simply stopped. He paused his breathing and actions until his chest stopped stabbing itself and he took shorter, quicker breaths.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson cried, shifting forward and throwing her boney arms around Sherlock's shoulders. He gently lifted her off of him, despite his annoyance. He glanced over to Lestrade, who looked more than happy to see him alive, but Sherlock frowned in response.

"Did you catch them?"

"Catch who?" Lestrade leaned against the door frame.

"The bloody thieves, Lestrade! The thieves!" Sherlock yelled, but immediately regretted it when a stifling pain tore through his chest, subconsciously making him grab at the hospital gown he was garbed in.

"Sir, you need to calm down or we'll have to restrain you. You're still recovering from surgery," the nurse interrupted and Sherlock sent a glare her way and he read her body; messy hair, red high-heels, her makeup was smeared faintly across her face and he took in the condition of her knees.

"What?" He replied snottily, "It can't be that you _care_? Not like you slept with a man last night and slipped out the front door this morning?"

The nurse covered her mouth in disbelief and something similar to confusion.

"Sherlock," Lestrade tried cutting in, tried to stop the consulting detective.

Sherlock continued quickly, "Yes, you fooled him, didn't you? Went to a bar? You met the man last night and tricked him into thinking you care. Oh, but you don't, do you? Not in the least. He thought you were something special, but all you wanted was a good time. You woke up too late. He was already downstairs making coffee. You were in a rush and all you thought about was getting out of his flat. You didn't bother repairing your makeup and left his house like a burglar. You were late for work, but at least you'll never have to see him again, correct?"

Tears suddenly escaped the nurse's eyes and she left Sherlock's room in a hurry, covering her mouth to keep herself from sobbing.

"Oh, Sherlock. That was rude," Mrs. Hudson broke the silence, holding her hands in her lap and a tilt of her head.

The consulting detective ignored his landlady. "Lestrade, how's John?" He was more mentally ready to receive the answer.

The DI was silent for what felt like minutes, but his face brightened up in a counterfeit way. "You can see him, if you're up for it."

Sherlock wasn't going to turn down that offer. He flung the hospital sheet off of him, revealing his hospital gown, but nothing more. He felt fine, or perhaps it was because the need to see John was so strong that he was numb to all pain. He slowly stood, suddenly feeling his weight despite his thin stature. Sherlock used the bed frame as a crutch and as he slowly moved away from it, his knees buckled and he slipped forward. Lestrade let out a loud grunt as he kneeled down to catch Sherlock, having much ease due to Sherlock's thinness.

"Alright, back to bed with you," Lestrade struggled to lift Sherlock back to his feet. The consulting detective was far too determined to see his best friend than to worry about his own health. He was beginning to hyperventilate; the shortness of breath was really getting to him.

Sherlock gently pushed past the DI and stumbled down the hospital's hallways, gripping tightly at the cloth near his chest. His dark hair was tousled and unkempt. His legs were shaky as he treaded down the hallway, consuming the stares of hospital staff and patients passing him.

Sherlock wasn't so mentally prepared for what he saw in the room four doors down from him. He stopped abruptly in front of the door and with weary eyes, stared at the patient in the bed. John was hooked to a morphine pump and a heart monitor was hooked to his index finger. His bashed up face wasn't what really bothered Sherlock, it was the expression behind the bruises and cuts and bandages. Sherlock could see pain. The consulting detective subconsciously took a few steps forward, but stopped.

"Unlike you, he didn't fall on top of rocks," Lestrade informed carefully after stepping into John's room. "He was shot in chest. Hit in a main artery, or something. Doctors say his major blood loss is the reason for his coma."

Sherlock's eyes were wide with concern and it occurred to him that John fell because of the shot. "Coma?"

There was a slight pause in Lestrade's voice. "Sherlock, you both have been unconscious for nearly a week."

The consulting detective wasn't all that ready to receive that kind of information. "He'll be ok, though, right? John will be fine?"

Lestrade put his hands in his pocket and waited a beat to answer. "I don't know."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sherlock was sitting on the opposite side of the room, staring at John intensely through dark blue eyes. He laced his fingers and leaned against his wrists, which leaned against his elbows, which leaned against a night table. Sherlock was beginning to get annoyed.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled, coughing shortly afterwards, having not enough breath to yell that loud. He heard the DI excuse himself from his mobile and he stomped into John's room, glaring at Sherlock.

"What is it?" he whispered loudly.

"John won't wake up," Sherlock replied in an even tone.

"It's been ten bloody minutes!"

"Ten minutes too long! How will we ever find those thieves without John?" Sherlock blinked once he said it. Had he really just said that? Of course he could do it on his own! There was no doubt about that. However, perhaps his feelings were getting in the way. Damn those feelings. He didn't want to do the case without him.

"He's in no condition! And neither are you," Lestrade made a valid point, covering the microphone on his mobile. Lestrade noticed Sherlock staring at it and answered his unasked question. "Donovan's checking out the scene. She hasn't found a single bullet in that snow."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. How awful! Was Scotland Yard so inadequate? Sherlock scoffed to himself before holding out his arm for Lestrade's mobile. Of course they were.

Reluctant, Lestrade handed his mobile phone to Sherlock.

"Bullets are affected by gravity whether in flight or not, and, when they leave the barrel, they no longer have any physical support, such as the brass, the box, your pocket, the magazine, the chamber, or the barrel, so they begin to fall. Not that you buffoons would know. Really, though, if you're to carry a weapon, you should know it's basic properties," Sherlock explained and insulted, and continued, "In addition, they are traveling through air, so air resistance progressively slows their flight, as did John's body. On most occasions the barrel is slanted upward slightly to compensate for this immediate drop; thus, for all but extreme shots, since the barrel is aimed slightly upward, the bullet does, indeed, rise slightly after it leaves the barrel, but the bullet never rises above the axis of the barrel. The man was firing like an idiot."

Sherlock walked quickly over to John and lifted the sheets. Though it was painful to see his best friend in such a traumatic state, Sherlock was all business at the moment. He leaned In to scrutinize the bullet hole, which was covered by a thick gauze, but Sherlock was able to make out how it entered John's body.

The consulting detective raised the mobile to his ear and continued, "Based on the shot trajectory, I'd say that the bullet is… within a hundred meters of the spot he had fallen. Scout out that area and I'm certain you'll find the bullet."

There was a brief silence before Donovan answered, "Freak." And the line went dead.

Sherlock let out a frustrated sigh and clicked Lestrade's mobile shut.

"Well?" Lestrade asked as Sherlock handed the phone back to him.

Sherlock coughed once and replied, "It won't be long now. However, I can never be sure how the sergeant will do."

Sherlock glanced back at John with a somber look on his face. It wouldn't be too much longer. Sherlock would have his revenge against the bastards that shot John.


End file.
